


Shirtsleeves II

by DesireeArmfeldt



Series: Speechless Snippets [6]
Category: due South
Genre: Clothing, M/M, POV Third Person, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:51:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser is uncomfortable in his clothes.  </p>
<p>Companion to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/724477">Shirtsleeves</a>.  Also, too many words to post to ds-snippets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shirtsleeves II

Ever since Fraser returned to Chicago, he has found himself uncomfortable in his clothes.  
  
Actually, that's not quite accurate.  He has found himself conscious of his clothes, self-conscious about them in a way he has rarely felt since his first few months in uniform.  More accurately still: being with Ray makes him aware of his clothes.  The feel of cotton and wool against his skin.  The number of layers between him and the air.  The degree of formality or informality implied by his choice of attire; the degree to which it emphasizes his profession, declares him on-duty...or not.  The effect on his posture; the constraints on his range of motion.  The precise number of movements required to remove any given item, or all of them.  Ray walks into a room and suddenly Fraser's clothes don't fit right any more and it's all he can do not to fidget constantly.  
  
Fraser has always been conscious of the implications of one's attire.  Uniforms in particular, of course, but the choice of a leather jacket or a trenchcoat, a flannel shirt or a worn sweater, a down vest or a t-shirt with the logo of a heavy metal band -- what we wear is a large part of how we present ourselves to the eyes of those around us, an impression difficult to counter.  But for his own part, Fraser has always dressed for the public eye.  Never before has he been so keenly aware of the gaze of a single pair of eyes, or wondered about what they see when they look at him.  
  
He's never been self-conscious about his naked body, either.  He's always felt at home in his own skin.  But now, when he's alone (always alone) he can't stop imagining what he looks like seen from the outside, what Ray would see if he were to look at Fraser's body.  How it would feel if Ray touched him with no layer of cloth between Ray's skin and his own.  How Ray's bare skin would feel under Fraser's fingers.  
  
Suddenly, a tunic laid aside, shirtsleeves rolled up, mean more than a concession to the summer heat, more than an indication of informality, easy camaraderie.  Suddenly these gestures seem laden with significance: a concession, an invitation, he's not sure which.  As Fraser rolls up his sleeves, his damp forearms prickle, hairs standing on end.  Ray's t-shirt is stained dark with sweat around the neck, in a V down his chest and another, misshapen, across his back, beneath the straps of his holster.  He glances up at Fraser and his gaze seems to get stuck.  Unconsciously (Fraser thinks), Ray straightens out of his slumped-over posture, shoulders opening, hands lying easy in his lap.  His eyes never leave Fraser's face.  
  
"Hot, huh?" he asks.  
  
Fraser nods, takes a step towards Ray, slides his finger under the strap across Ray's left shoulder.  Smooth leather; warm, damp cloth over hard muscle.  
  
"You'd be more comfortable if you took it off," he suggests.  
  
Ray smiles up at him like Fraser's just handed him the moon.


End file.
